Diablo III: Storm of Light

PROLOGUE

The High Heavens

Since the dawn of time, the forces of darkness and light have remained locked in eternal conflict.

Our battles have raged throughout the centuries like flames erupting from smoldering embers. Whenever the angels have struck down the darkness, it has risen again, stronger than before. And yet each time, the keepers of the light and the rulers of the High Heavens have claimed ultimate victory.

At the End of Days, our foolish pride made us blind. In the guise of a child, Diablo rose up from the ashes, climbing through Sanctuary to shatter the Diamond Gates. And truly, success was close at hand, for the Crystal Arch, the source of angelic power, was within the grasp of the Prime Evil.

Until mankind intervened.

One mortal soul stood against the destruction of two worlds. The nephalem’s great courage gave strength to us all, turned the tide of fate, and led to the fall of Diablo and the salvation of Sanctuary and the High Heavens themselves.

But darkness does not fade so easily. Once more, our victory has been claimed far too soon.

The Prime Evil has been struck down.

But there are other forces that would move against the world of men.

A falcon in flight might have viewed it as a series of silver-tipped mountain peaks rising up through the mist, the scope of them too breathtaking for any mere human to grasp. At its center rose a structure taller than the rest, a shining tower topped with a multifaceted arch that shimmered like cut diamonds. The light of the Heavens kissed these gleaming skins, set fire to them so that the entire vast tableau glowed like outstretched wings, spires reaching ever skyward as glittering crystal threw sparks to warm the darkness.

The Silver City.

In the world of angels, the archangel of Wisdom had recently come to realize, there are no beds.

Bleary-eyed and worn, Tyrael looked up from where his quill lay across the parchment as warmth and light washed through soaring arch and buttress, breathing life into the immense open space around him. He’d had no use for sleep until his mortal soul had taken up residence within his breast. Now the constant light that infused the Heavens confused his newfound internal rhythms, and he longed to lay his head on a gentler surface than the stone floor of these chambers. But he had yet to summon something more comfortable. The shedding of his wings had already given his brethren enough cause to look for any sign of weakness. He would not hand them another.

Tyrael flexed his cramped fingers. He had been taking his own notes on Deckard’s heavy scrawl, but there would be no more work done tonight, in spite of his unspoken promise to Deckard and Leah to finish what they had begun. And yet he could not bring himself to close his eyes. Not yet. There was much to consider beyond his own mortal failings. His growing rift with Imperius and the Council, for one. The role of men in controlling their destinies. The fate of Sanctuary itself.

And above all else, what to do about the thing that resided among them, seemingly silent and still as its tendrils crept like blackened pitch across sacred ground.

The archangel left his solitary chambers and walked through the lonely rooms and corridors that lined the Courts of Justice and the Ring of Judgment, his footsteps echoing on endless planes of polished stone. His mortal senses had difficulty accepting his surroundings. He had resided here for countless millennia, and yet he saw it differently now. Each space opened to one larger and more stunning than the one before; pointed arches and intricate, ribbed vaults soared far overhead; clustered columns ran through infinity; light burst forth at random from countless crystal facets that shifted and changed colors at will.

When the angels were present, their song resonated along with the Arch in a perfect harmony of light and sound. But Justice was empty now, its vast courts, benches, and seating vacant and cold, and the music of the Heavens was soft and subdued.

The archangel felt an odd ache in his breast, a longing for things left behind. Although angels still brought their grievances here, Tyrael’s former home had remained largely unoccupied since his transformation. The Luminarei, Defenders of the Arch, had taken up residence with Imperius in the Halls of Valor.

I should remove myself from this place, he thought. It is an echo of my former self, one that shall never return. And yet he could not. Since Malthael’s disappearance, Wisdom’s domain had also fallen silent, and the Angiris Council suffered for it. Tyrael had meant to assume those duties and act as a guiding hand during the most challenging decisions the Council would face. But the pools that spilled through that realm seemed alien to him, unsettling, and Chalad’ar called with a song he dared not answer. The legendary chalice required abilities that he was no longer sure he possessed.

He felt an ache in his back, a twinge in his knee. His physical form was already breaking down, the slow decline toward the grave that all mortals must face. He knew in his heart that the choice he made was the right one. And yet you still doubt yourself.

What did it mean for an archangel to be so fragile? How could he fight back the darkness if his new body was so vulnerable to attack? Would he have been better prepared to face the challenges that were coming if he had not made that choice?

The Courts of Justice had given way to an atrium that curved far above his head. Through another arch, a platform made of crystal and stone and carved with intricate, flowing designs stretched before him. The Angiris Council chamber. Tyrael was faced with the thrones from which the archangels made their arguments. The chamber was empty, and the light that had streamed through the arching windows earlier was curiously absent here.

The Black Soulstone sat on its pedestal as if awaiting his arrival.

The stone’s sharp facets and points thrust up from the base like a blackened claw. It was barely larger than a man’s skull. How could a thing like this hold such terrible darkness?

Tyrael approached slowly, both fascinated and repelled by the stone’s power. An unfamiliar chill ran through him, a mortal shell’s warning. The bloody light that shone from the Black Soulstone had been extinguished after Diablo fell and the stone was retrieved from a lower realm of the Heavens. But as Tyrael moved closer, he thought he saw the faintest glint from within.

Halt!

The archangel had reached out a hand toward the stone. He quickly withdrew it and turned toward the voice.

Balzael stood beneath the arch that led to the chamber, his impressive form partially hidden in shadow. The right hand of Imperius. The Luminarei warrior stepped out onto the platform and unfurled his magnificent wings, tendrils of light snapping up toward the chamber roof. Balzael’s armor was golden, the breastplate marked with the symbols of his rank.

What is Wisdom doing here alone?

Had Tyrael sensed the slightest mocking tone in the use of his new title? Do not question me, Balzael. I go where I please. Has Imperius sent you to spy on me?

I guard the stone, Balzael said. That is the task given to me, above all else.

Those are not the only orders the archangel of Valor has for you, are they? He does not trust his brother?

Mortal souls are easily corrupted.

Tyrael’s heart beat faster at the warrior’s impudence. The implication was clear: Balzael had wings; Tyrael did not and was the lesser for it. And angels’ pride blinds them to their fate, the archangel said. I commanded you not long ago. Do you forget this so soon?

Instead of backing down, Balzael moved closer. You taught me well enough to know when to be suspicious.

Balzael made the slightest move toward his sword, barely enough to be noticeable. But the statement it made was clear. Anger washed over Tyrael at the brazen challenge, and he stepped forward, too, standing tall, his fingers itching to grasp El’druin where it hung at his side. At the same time, he was aware of his limits. Although skilled in battle, Tyrael was not as strong as he had been as an immortal.

For a moment, Tyrael believed Balzael might draw the weapon. Then a glow of light manifested at the entrance to the chamber. The archangel of Hope appeared before them, sweeping forward and seeming to assess the situation in an instant. Leave here, she said to Balzael. We will be meeting soon.

I have not received notice of such a—

The Angiris Council is not required to notify you of anything, Auriel said. The light surrounding her changed slightly, pulsing like a heartbeat. She was not often so brief; the impact was all the greater for it. I will watch over the stone. Now, go.

Balzael hesitated a moment and gave a slight bow. As you wish, he said, then turned and disappeared through the arch, his light fading away to darkness.

Auriel and Tyrael were left alone. After a few more pulsing beats, she turned to him. He has grown arrogant after his promotion.

Bravery and arrogance are close cousins, Tyrael replied. He showed great heroism against the Prime Evil and sent more demons back to the Hells than any other. Imperius made the obvious choice. I would have done the same.

Perhaps. Auriel’s light grew softer and warmer as she studied him. I would assume you are here to meet, except there is no Council meeting. You look . . . weary, my brother. You cannot sleep?

Would that I had no need of such a thing.

Ah, but you do, Auriel said. I sensed your inner conflict. It drew me from the gardens. Balzael, he . . . She made a motion, as if to dismiss the thought. The Heavens are not the most forgiving place or the most sensitive. The angels might not agree with what you have done, Tyrael, but that does not make the choice any less valid.

Auriel removed Al’maiesh, the Cord of Hope, and reached, the embodiment of light itself, her armor and flowing robes ending with fingered gauntlets. As she draped the cord over his shoulder, warmth flooded through his mortal flesh, a sense of calm and well-being along with it.

Time ceased to exist as the cord tightened around him. Then Auriel withdrew, and the warmth faded.

You are concerned, she said after a time. About me?

Never, Tyrael said. He struggled to remain impassive, in keeping with an archangel’s bearing. He could not answer her with the truth. When he slept each night, he dreamed as mortals did: not the visions of angels but a far more immersive and fluid state that took him places he had never been. At first, these dreams had been joyous, filled with reflections of the High Heavens and his former immortal existence. But as the nights passed, they began to change, the brilliant light and music of his dreamscapes turning darker, more sinister. He dreamed of something chasing him that he could not outrun, a shadow that was relentless and icy-cold, that clenched him tightly until his beating heart was still. He dreamed of entire human cities being wiped away, the screams of people in agony as their mortal bodies were pulled apart piece by piece, as buildings collapsed and the very ground cracked and tore itself to dust.

Auriel could not possibly understand these dreams. Tyrael was mortal, and the divide between them was too great. And yet his mortal weaknesses led to insights that the rest of the Angiris Council did not possess. The archangels’ pride left them unable to sense the danger they faced now.

Auriel coiled Al’maiesh at her side, the ribbon of light becoming one with her being once again. You are Wisdom, she said. And yet you do not rest among the pools. You have not yet accepted your role. Your guidance can help us rule the Heavens, should you choose to embrace it.

And if the Council chooses to listen.

The others sense your conflict, she said. They do not understand why you shed your wings. If you are clear about where your allegiance lies—

What about the allegiance I have pledged to build between angels and men? Many centuries ago, our votes saved Sanctuary from destruction. Humans have much to offer us now. Without the nephalem, the Prime Evil would have destroyed the Arch, and the Heavens themselves would have fallen!

And without humans, such a thing would never have been created, Auriel said, motioning toward the stone on its perch. The Council will debate this, Tyrael. That is the proper place for such a discussion.

The debate will change nothing, Tyrael said. Imperius will not be swayed from his position. I believe Itherael will vote against Sanctuary’s survival. This is not what I envisioned for our future, my sister. Together, angels and men can push back the darkness forever.

She turned away as if to go, but Tyrael blocked her path.

The decision rests with us. Will you stand with me now, as you did before?

It went against the Council to speak so plainly of this outside of a formal session, and Auriel did not answer. Tyrael sensed a rigidity and coldness in the archangel’s demeanor that he had never felt before. She had always supported the survival of humanity, and he did not understand her silence.

But he feared what such silence might mean.

They stood together for a moment. He had gone too far. Saddened, he stepped aside, and Auriel swept by him without another word. He let her go, the ache in his chest expanding as she disappeared through the arch and left him alone. Their friendship had survived for millennia, and this reaction from her was like a thousand tiny cuts. He felt everything more strongly now, felt the archangels’ growing distrust deep within himself.

Tyrael turned back to the Black Soulstone. It sat silent and lifeless, as if mocking him. He studied it more closely. Its appearance had changed; he was certain. Had it swollen in size since he had first arrived at the chamber?

It is reacting to my presence, just as I suspected. If so, time was already running short, indeed. A darkness has pervaded the Heavens in a way it never has before. This is not like the Prime Evil’s brazen assault on the gates but something far subtler and more insidious . . . a creeping evil that only I can sense.

Wisdom feared for the future of the High Heavens and of Sanctuary and believed now, more than ever, that terrible things were in store for them all.

In the shadows beyond the Angiris Council chamber, Balzael watched Auriel leave, waiting until the glow from her wings faded away to nothing. He had not heard every word.

But he had heard enough.

The halls were silent at this time; angels did not sleep, not the way mortals did, but there were quiet periods of contemplation and study when the music of the Heavens softened and their inhabitants grew still. By all rights, he should have been among them. But he had been given an important task, and he meant to fulfill his duty.

So far, events had occurred exactly as they had been predicted by the Guardian. Each step would have to be handled perfectly for the Guardian’s plans to succeed. Until then, Tyrael must be carefully monitored, regardless of Auriel’s recent interference.

Moments later, Tyrael emerged from the chamber. Balzael shrank back, shrouding his wings to keep from being seen. Mortal eyes were weak in many ways, but they picked up the light well. He watched Tyrael walk away from the Council’s meeting place, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. The meaty stink of flesh poured off him. Balzael resisted making a snarl of disgust. How such a legendary archangel could fall so far, so quickly, he did not know. But it would not be much longer before the stench was wiped away forever.

Balzael waited until Tyrael’s footsteps were faint in the distance and then followed, keeping himself carefully hooded. He would brief the Guardian later and receive counsel on what to do next. Tyrael did not know it, but he would play a vital role in a matter of life and death for angels and men, an end to the Eternal Conflict, the war between the Heavens and the Hells.

Above all, Tyrael must not be allowed to stop the darkness that had begun to creep across the realm of angels.

The future of the Heavens themselves hung in the balance.

PART ONE

The Creeping Dark

Chapter One

The Wanderer, Caldeum

The entrance to the tomb was black as a thresher’s maw, the fat man said in a low voice, leaning forward as if imparting a terrible secret. Our torch revealed only the first few steps before the dark swallowed it up. The smell of rot from the hole spoke of things dead and wanting to stay buried.

He looked through the smoke-filled, flickering light at the circle of faces turned toward him, making eye contact with each one to draw their attention from the whining notes strummed from the lyre at the far side of the tavern. His frock coat and trousers might have indicated Caldeum gentry, but they were well worn and patched in several places.

The number of those gathered around the fireplace grew by one as a woman in a dress sewn from a root sack tossed a jingling coin into the upturned pigskin cap set on the table. The smell of yeast and sour milk wafted over them as she took a stool.

What’s this got to do with the boy emperor? a man called out. You were going to explain the uprising and the evacuation of the city, you said.

No mystery to it, another said from halfway across the room. Some say it was a Lord of the Hells raining green fire, but Zakarum priests are in league with the trade consortium council and want new leadership. They were behind it, I say! Lucky for Hakan he survived.

Let him tell it, the woman in the sack dress said, motioning toward the storyteller. She grinned, exposing black gaps where her front teeth should be. The city’s got troubles enough. We could use a good story or two.

The bartender, built like a barbarian, scowled and resumed scrubbing the bar with a dirty rag, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

It’s no story, I assure you, the narrator said quickly. Every word is true.

The fire was hot at his back. A trickle of sweat ran from a receding hairline down his temple. He nodded once at the woman, his gray-whiskered jowls twitching with the slightest smile, before settling back into a proper expression of abject terror.

"Where was I? Ah, yes. This was the lost tomb of a powerful Horadric mage, mind you, one who had been corrupted by the most foul evil and who conspired with demons. The mage was long dead, but my master had confirmed through extensive research that his resting place was surely haunted and protected by deadly spells. We all suspected what might await us belowground was not of this world, and not one—man, woman, or the young lass who had helped lead us to the cursed place—was willing to go first. And yet we had to proceed, because the very fate of Sanctuary itself depended upon it.

" ‘Twas then that an inhuman cry came from below, like some kind of creature tortured upon the rack and torn limb from limb! The sound of death itself. I was consumed with a fear that bled the strength from my bones, but al-Hazir grabbed the torch from the wizard and marched to the steps. ‘Hurry up, then,’ he said. ‘I may be only a poor travel scribe, but I shall provide the first light upon this black demon’s hole!’ "

His voice grew louder as he described the descent into the tomb. The crowd murmured, and the sound of scraping stool legs momentarily drowned out what the fat man said next as more patrons turned to face him. Several more coins jingled into the hat; many listeners shook their heads and laughed at such nonsense, while others smiled uneasily. Caldeum was a city in turmoil, and tales of black magic and demons always served to spark the imaginations of its citizens.

At a table in the corner, about ten feet away, a blond man sat with his hands wrapped around a mug of mead, only the slightest tilt of his head giving any indication that he was also listening. He wore the plain, dust-colored robes of a nomad, a black sash around his waist with the sheath of a short sword tucked into it. The man was slim, his angular features in shadow. Nothing else in particular about him stood out. He did not appear to be a native of Caldeum, but if asked which lands he properly belonged to, nobody in the tavern would have been able to say. Since he had entered the Wanderer, the other patrons had left him alone, as if sensing his reluctance for company.

As the narrator’s tale grew, his stubby arms began waving so wildly that he threatened to topple backward off his stool at any moment. His master, al-Hazir, encountered massive, inhuman beasts made of stone and sand, the storyteller said, and defeated them with his wits when the other adventurers failed with their spells and swords. Kulle had been beheaded by the Horadrim centuries ago, to keep him from rising from the dead, the man said. "We found the grisly remains in a ritual chamber, where the witch began her spells in spite of my master’s warnings. Al-Hazir had read the Demonicus, written by Zoltun Kulle himself—"

Aw, get out with you! the bartender suddenly shouted. He had continued scrubbing furiously at the bar’s scratched and worn surface with the filthy cloth as the fat man rambled on, and his face had grown red with rage. I’ve heard enough! Peddle your nonsense on the streets—not in my place of business!

The lyre player stopped abruptly, and the few remaining patrons who had been ignoring the spectacle around the fireplace turned to stare. The fat man blinked furiously. Another round, Marley, for your troubles—

The bartender slapped the cloth down, removing a stained apron and stepping out from behind the bar. He picked up a piece of split wood from a pile by the wall and brandished it like a club, marching toward the narrator. Not for you. Now, get out, I said. He waved the wood at the circle of listeners by the fireplace. The rest of you can go with him and set up on the corner in the cold, if you’re still of a mind to listen to such swill. Or spend your coin to fill your bellies here, where it’s warm.

The bartender tossed the wood roughly onto the fire. The crowd grumbled as sparks flew up and a cloud of black smoke puffed over those who occupied the circle of stools, making them cough and draw back. Other patrons in the tavern laughed as the storyteller, still protesting, stumbled drunkenly when he rose. He grabbed his hat, nearly spilling the coins as the bartender took his arm while muttering more curses under his breath.

Go find your master, the bartender said, and led him toward the exit. Perhaps he can cast a spell on your tongue to stop it from wagging.

I beg you to reconsider, the storyteller said, making one last stand as the bartender flung the door wide and a gust of icy air blew in. I have much to tell, things that the people must hear! Al-Hazir has met Tyrael himself, the archangel of Justice—

I don’t care if he knows where the boy emperor last shat, the bartender said. He won’t do it in here, and neither will you.

He pushed the fat man out. The door slammed closed, cutting off the cold. For a moment, the fire guttered, casting wavering shadows across the faces of the people watching. None of them moved. Then the bartender motioned to the lyre player, and the off-key melody began again, and people turned back to their drinks, some of them still laughing as the fire crackled and spit.

Nobody noticed when the blond man from the corner table stood a few moments later and quietly slipped to the door, disappearing into the blustery night like a ghost.

Outside, the Wanderer’s weathered wooden sign banged and slapped against its post, chains rattling in the icy chill. Gusts of wind threw grit from the street in stinging sheets and brought clumps of straw and the smell of dung from nearby stables. Several torches had already gone out, and the evening moon was masked by clouds, adding to the gloom.

Jacob of Staalbreak took a moment to raise the hood of his tunic and tighten it around his neck before squinting through the blowing sand for the storyteller’s location. Tyrael, he’d said. The archangel who carried El’druin. The fat man had gotten many of the details surrounding the resurrection of Zoltun Kulle spectacularly wrong; he was a buffoon who had likely never come close to an actual demon. But his casual mention of the archangel as he was being tossed out on his ear had sent a charge through Jacob. He had to know whether there was a kernel of truth to the story.

The proprietor of an alchemist’s shop was frantically hammering thick-hewn boards across the shutters to keep them from blowing off. The sound echoed through the empty street like the hollow booms of battle axes falling upon shields. Other than that, the city seemed abandoned, everyone else hunkered down against the storm. Jacob spotted the fat man just before he faded into the darkness, his back hunched against the wind, staggering with drink. Jacob set off, moving quickly and closing the gap.

The storyteller turned a corner and kept going at a regular pace, never looking back. He had emptied the coins into his pocket and set the old cap on his head, and it bobbed with each step. As he walked, his strides steadied. By the time he had reached a muddy street of ramshackle hovels on the outskirts of Caldeum, the fat man was no longer staggering at all, and Jacob was only a few paces behind.

This section of the city near the trade tents was mostly inhabited by day laborers and prostitutes, thieves and madmen, and there were no torches. The shadows deepened, only the vaguest shapes revealed. As drunk as he had appeared, the storyteller did not belong here—even guardsmen did not often come after dark. The dwellings were made of mud and sand, their roofs thatched with cornhusks that hissed and rattled in the wind. The sound masked Jacob’s footsteps, but the fat man would not have heard him regardless; he had spent many years learning how to approach his target with stealth and cunning.

Perhaps the loss of the Sword of Justice, El’druin, had left him weaker, Jacob thought, or more desperate. The sword would have given him a better sense of this man’s true intentions. Jacob had been roaming these lands for nearly twenty years, seeking out places where the balance between right and wrong had become skewed, and the archangel Tyrael’s sword had become as much a part of him as breathing. Without it, he felt blind to the outcome, fumbling about in the dark until his hands met resistance, and that was a dangerous thing, particularly here, where he might be knifed for his boots.

He was no hero, not anymore. He had never considered himself one, even if others might have disagreed; he had simply dispensed justice the way the sword demanded. But he had come this far, and turning back now made even less sense. He had to see how things would end.

Jacob could barely notice the fat man’s bulk as he made for the largest of the dwellings, the only one with any light. A reddish glow flickered from a small window set within the extra-thick mud walls, enough to make the hovel stand out like a beacon in the night. Perhaps the storyteller was drawn to it at random, searching for a warm place away from the storm’s icy breath. Or perhaps he did belong here, after all. Although his clothing indicated he might have once had money, no member of Caldeum’s gentry would have been caught dead at the Wanderer. These streets stood as the final outpost on the way to oblivion.

Jacob caught him at the door. The fat man, fumbling at the rough, looped clasp of rope that held it shut, startled at the hand on his shoulder and let out a small cry. Jacob turned him and found the man’s face bled of all color, white skin standing out like a phantom in the dark. He was about the same height but had two hundred pounds on Jacob, if not more. Still, he wasn’t in any condition